


As Dreamers Do

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Raphael!Crowley (if you squint), Rated for all the swearing, Starmaker Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: A history of demonic wishing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 11
Kudos: 172





	As Dreamers Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 19, wish).

“So,” the angel says, awkwardly, when the storm is over. “I ought to…”

“No, yeah, of course. I was just going to, uh.” Crawley jerks his head in the opposite direction to that Adam and Eve disappeared in. Best not to give the angel a reason to change his mind and decide to smite him, after all. “You know.”

The angel fidgets with his robe. “Right.”

“Right.” Crawley turns on his heel and walks away from the angel, without looking back.

He doesn’t dwell on this strange angel who was more inclined to talk than to smite. He doesn’t think about a white, white wing stretched over his head, shielding him from the first rain.

He doesn’t wish things were different. There’s no point in that. They never will be.

⁂

“You’re really alright with killing kids?”

The angel squirms, looking everywhere except at him. “I can’t disobey orders.”

Crawley snorts. “Course not. You’d end up like me. Wouldn’t want that, would we.” It comes out more bitter than he’d intended it to; and the angel flinches.

“I wish things were different,” the angel says, very quietly. Like that’s worth anything. Like wishing serves a purpose other than breaking your own heart.

Well, fuck the angel. And the rest of them, of course, hypocritical, holier-than-thou wankers one and all, but this one specifically. He’s not just gonna stand by and let kids die. He can sell it to Hell as thwarting the will of Heaven.

⁂

“That’s quite enough of that, I think.”

“Nuh.” Crowley clings to the wine jug, clutches it tightly to him, but it’s in vain; it’s gently but forcefully pried out of his hands. He’s strong, but the angel’s stronger. A moment later, there’s the uncomfortable feeling of an angelic miracle running through him as he is forcibly sobered up. “What’d you do _that_ for?”

“There is such a thing as too much alcohol,” the angel says, primly.

“Not for us,” Crowley growls. “The fuck you care how much I drink, anyway? Let me grieve in peace.”

“Grieve,” the angel repeats, after a stunned pause. “For —”

“No, for those two poor fuckers I’d never seen before, the ones they put up at the same time as him. _Yes_ , for him. Fuck’s sake, angel.”

“I thought —” The angel frowns. “You _knew_ him?”

“He was a friend.”

“But —”

“Some of us actually bother spending time with the humans,” Crowley says, snidely.

“Oh. I — I’m sorry. I wish —”

“Little point in that. Things are what they are.” Crowley closes his eyes and buries his face in his hands. He’s too sober for this.

“Still, I _am_ sorry.” There’s the soft sound of liquid being poured into a container; when Crowley looks up, the angel slides a cup of wine towards him. “Would you tell me about him?”

Quietly, haltingly, against his better judgment, Crowley does. It’s only this one time, anyway. They’ll go back to being enemies tomorrow.

⁂

The food is awful, the wine is awful, the people are awful, everything in Rome is awful and Emperor Caligula is _particularly_ bloody awful. Didn’t need any influencing at all, that one, and Crowley resents having had to waste the time.

Can’t leave, either. Must stick around to make sure the temptation he didn’t need to perform takes effect. As if Caligula wasn’t already headed straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect 200 sesterces. He wishes —

— no, he does _not_ wish Aziraphale were here. What the fuck is _wrong_ with him, wanting the company of an angel?

 _Ugh_. He needs more alcohol.

⁂

To be fair, Aziraphale isn’t wrong, Michael _is_ , as far as Crowley remembers, a bit of a stickler — or, in common parlance, a complete wanker — but there is no _point_ to this thing they’re doing. What’s he even going to put in his report? ‘I spent two years clanking around the damp countryside in extremely uncomfortable armour, but alas, my wily adversary has thwarted me and we’ve cancelled each other out yet again, so I’ve got nothing to show for it’? They could probably write each other’s reports, at this point, and nobody would even be able to _tell_.

He wishes the angel would just listen to him. They’d be spending less time on countering each other, and more time together. Not that he particularly cares for the angel, they’re not even friends, really. But they understand each other. They can keep each other company.

⁂

He wishes he knew what’s wrong with him. One moment he’s perfectly fine, happily cheating on the coin flip to send Aziraphale off to Edinburgh; the next, he’s volunteering to make Billy Shakespeare’s dreary oeuvre a success, just because he knows it’ll make the angel smile.

Oh, well. He’ll figure it out.

⁂

Crepes. The idiot angel nearly got himself discorporated because of bloody _crepes_. And the noises he makes when eating them are just — just _obscene_. He’s met succubi who sounded less alluring when _working_ , for Satan’s sake.

He really should just leave. He doesn’t even know why he’s still sitting here, watching Aziraphale eat, wishing the angel would look at him the way he looks at —

Oh. He’s in love with Aziraphale.

Well, that explains a lot.

 _Fuck_.

⁂

Well. To say that had gone terribly, and not at all according to plan, would be to understate things rather severely. He wishes Aziraphale had just believed him, when he’d told him why he wanted the holy water. He wishes he could just tell the angel the truth about how he feels, for that matter, but he knows, he _knows_ that way lies nothing but heartbreak.

He wishes he’d been smart enough to never start wishing to begin with.

He needs some time away from Aziraphale, clearly. Maybe he can just sleep it off.

⁂

There had been a moment, not long after the bomb dropped, where he would swear — on his life, on his wings, on what little remains of his soul — that Aziraphale had looked at him with love. But who’s he kidding? That’s just wishful thinking.

⁂

_Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz._

Aziraphale’s words echo in his mind as he drives away. He wishes, with all his heart, that he could believe that they will come true. But he can’t.

⁂

It occurs to him, as he calls for another bottle, that he hasn’t gotten drunk by himself in millennia; that Aziraphale had always been there.

He wishes that could still be true. He wishes he’d told the angel how he felt, while he still could. He wishes they’d had more time.

But Aziraphale is dead and gone; and all that’s left of Crowley’s wishes is the taste of ashes in his mouth, the smell of smoke in the back of his throat.

⁂

“And — ooh, that system was a _pain_ to set up.” Crowley points. “Looks like a single star from here, but it’s six. Took me an absolute age to work out the orbits. And then, just as I’d arranged them all properly, this Seraph shows up. Nearly crashes into one of the stars on arrival, backwings just in time, knocks half of them out of orbit. I could’ve throttled him. He said he’d been sent by Gabriel to help.” He snorts. “More likely, he was too clumsy for Gabriel’s liking, so the prat decided to saddle me with his incompetence, instead.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says, sympathetically. “But you managed to fix it?”

“It fixed itself, believe it or not. Settled into a semblance of order. Not how I’d planned it to be, but at that point, I honestly couldn’t be bothered to redo the work, so I just left it.”

Aziraphale laughs. “That sounds like you.”

“Hush,” Crowley says, fondly.

Aziraphale looks set to retort; but then he clutches at Crowley’s arm, instead, smiling brightly, and points at the meteors streaking across the sky. “Oh, there they are! Make a wish, my dear.”

“A wish,” Crowley scoffs. “That’s for _humans_. ‘S just falling rocks. I should know.”

“Well, I think it’s a lovely idea, still,” Aziraphale says, primly. “I’ve made mine.”

“Really? What’d you wish for?”

“Can’t tell. Wouldn’t come true if I did.”

“Oh, come off it,” Crowley says, laughing. “It’s books, isn’t it? You wished for more books. And of course it’ll come true, because we’ve already planned on going to that antiquarian market tomorrow.”

“I will shove you off this roof, Crowley, see if I don’t.”

“Feel free. I’ve got wings, same at you. Won’t do anything.”

Aziraphale huffs, pretending to be annoyed; and Crowley pulls him close, kisses him under the light of the stars he set in the sky.

He doesn’t need to wish anymore. He’s got everything he’s ever wanted, right in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> The sextuple star system is [Castor](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castor_\(star\)); the meteor shower is the [Geminids](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geminids).
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
